Baby, Baby

My son finishes his bottle and turns towards me, putting his arms up around my neck. His eyes are already half-closed and I can feel the quiet in his body. He is ready for bed. We've had a long couple of days, weeks, months together, and it feels like we've reached some new plateau of mutual understanding. Like some major things have just ratcheted into place for both of us.

My son, my beautiful, intelligent, playful son is in my arms, one soft arm around my neck, one in between my body and arm. It's always thus. I'm holding him in a sling made from both forearms, rocking gently and bouncing from time to time. A burp escapes his body and I can hear from where it starts in his little stomach, up through his torso and out over my shoulder. I whisper and pat his back.

I turn to look at the clock now to see when I'll lay him down. 10:08. Two minutes. I always go by the clock so I won't rush it. Time is so subjective when you're waiting for it to pass. Tonight I have the presence to enjoy the two minutes instead of check the clock every ten seconds.

Suddenly it occurs to me, concrete and real, that I won't be able to do this much longer. Already he's a year old, so big and tall and growing all the time at an incredible rate. Physical attributes aside, how much longer will he even want to be held? One year old seems like the perfect age. He's perfect right here, right now. I want to stop his aging, keep him one forever. It'd be wonderful. He can walk, he's learning sign language so fast, he eats and sleeps pretty well, we have a system down. I could handle an eternal one year old.

I wonder briefly if there are any vampires in town, but the thought of feeding a baby blood puts me off. I don't want him to get any older. I hug his huge, tiny body against mine, press my face into the crook of his sleeping neck. My eyes begin to water. It feels like he will be leaving me soon, breaking up with me, moving away. It's too much. Is this what my dad went through? I want to hold and cuddle and sleep with him forever. But he'll get big and greasy, angry and too old for me. It's the tragedy every parent experiences; we all come to it on our own, it's never mentioned in Sex Ed or in any of the brochures.

10:10 clicks into place. I hug him tightly, lay him down in his newly-lowered crib, pull a thin blanket over his legs. I rub his head and stomach and tell him I love him. This time out of the many others feels more articulated, less rehearsed. You don't know what you got 'till you know it'll be gone.